


come and save yourself, i swear i don't care

by notthebigspoon



Series: Amaryllis [26]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the game is a clusterfuck, Brandon breaks a phone with his <i>fucking</i> face and Brad just fucks.</p><p>Title taken from Transfer by Collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come and save yourself, i swear i don't care

“Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_!”

Brandon had followed Vogelsong into the clubhouse because he was worried. Now he thinks that maybe he should be more worried about himself because Vogelsong's phone just shattered apart on Brandon's _fucking_ forehead. He starts illustrating his own grasp of the word fuck, hand pressed against his forehead and sinking down the wall.

Vogelsong is panicking. “Fuck fuck, Belt, I'm sorry, are you okay? Jesus, Bochy is going to fucking _murder_ me.”

“The fuck did the fucking phone do to you?” Brandon groans, rubbing his forehead with his wrist before staggering to his feet. “I gotta get back out there.”

So much for being the supportive teammate.

***

He makes it back into the dugout just quickly enough to avoid being overly scrutinized. He keeps his hat yanked down over his forehead to hide the red mark. He really hopes that's not going to bruise. Not because he's worried Vogelsong will feel guilty, he doesn't care about that, it's just that this is one of those things that would probably go right up there with rug burn.

He picks a spot and just... hides in plain sight. As much as a guy his size can hide.

Because Brad's concentrating on the game but he's also been slipping Brandon funny looks. Vogelsong alternates between looking pissed the fuck off and desperately apologetic. Lincecum is trying to pretend he's not concerned about Posey. Brandon's officially ready to write this game off as a fucking wash. In the end, that's what it is.

He keeps his head down in the clubhouse. Showers, speaks only when spoken to and completely ignores Vogelsong because motherfucker, his head _still_ hurts and there's some faint discoloring that's going to turn into a bruise. As soon as nobody is really paying attention to him (not that they were paying him much attention to begin with) he slips out the door and heads straight for the player's parking lot. 

All he wants to do is go home, drink a beer, order take out and watch King of the Hill.

The plan goes reasonably well. The Chinese place a few blocks from his apartment delivers his food in twenty minutes and throws in some extra bits and pieces on the house with a note telling him it's okay if the Giants lost, Hua still loves him. Going by most of the messages on his phone, he's glad that somebody in the world still does.

He's parked on the couch forking noodles into his mouth and watching Cotton choke on a shrimp when he hears a knock on his front door. It could be any of the guys and he _could_ hide. That's what he wants to do after the fuck fest that was that game. But eh, he's got plenty of food and plenty of beer and what's the point after all? At least that's how he feels until he opens the door because there's Brad looking less than pleased.

Ohhhhh crap. Brandon's not sure what he did but he is sure that he's in trouble.

“The fuck did you do to your forehead?”

“Um. I went to check on Vogey after they took him out and he threw his phone. And I kind of broke it. With my face.” Brandon mumbles. He kind of wants to shrink down and disappear, Brad's glaring that hard at him. He draws in a breath, stepping back. “You wanna come in? Got food and beer.”

Brad nods and steps inside but he doesn't sit down. He paces back and forth, hands flexing and clenching into fists, jaw clenching. But then he's muttering about something being fucking stupid and fisting his hands into Brandon's shirt, yanking him in for a kiss that's tongue and teeth and a sharp coppery flood of blood.

“Fucking Vogelsong, like you weren't fucking brain damaged enough already...”

“That's a nice thing to say to the guy who sucks your cock.” Brandon grunts as they fall to the floor and he groans, arching when Brad's hand shoves his shorts down. He's about to say something else when Brad's mouth closes over his cock and two slick fingers (wow, he's dating a boy scout, always prepared) press into him.

Brandon thinks maybe he should defend his own virtue by saying they don't always have to have sex. Instead he begs Brad to fuck him. Hard. Brad obliges, flipping him onto his hands and knees. There's a rustling, the crackling noise of a condom wrapper being torn open, the click and slick of lube and then. 

Then Brad is pushing into him, long and thick and hard and Brandon drops onto his elbows, head hanging down, taking ragged breaths, “Nnngh... _yes_. _Please_.”

“Shhh. You'll get it.” Brad murmurs, his hands smoothing over Brandon's skin like he's petting a skittish colt. His thrusts are slow, teasing and Brandon _knows_ that the man is trying to drive him insane, trying to make him beg. He can't even be mad because there's no way that it's not going to happen. It always does.

And the second he says please, that's when he gets what he wants. Brad fucking him, deep and fast and hard enough to make Brandon's arms buckle from beneath him. His boyfriend's name falls from his lips ragged and pleading, everything about him demanding more more more, Brad as usual happy to oblige him.

Sometime, he's not sure when, he finally begs enough for Brad to let him touch himself and it's just one stroke and he's gone, vision whiting out. At some point he knows that Brad helps him up. Strips him off and tugs him into the shower where he gets kisses and touches that make him purr and almost crumble boneless into the floor.

He knows he gets dressed and he kind of thinks he tells Brad to get in the bed and cuddle him damn it but if he remembers that in the morning, he'll probably deny it. The important thing is that Brad doesn't argue. He doesn't even laugh, just nods and climbs into bed and tugs Brandon into his arms. Brandon falls asleep with his head on Brad's chest and a kiss being pressed to the top of his head.

***

“Oh. My. God.”

“Shut up.”

“GREGOR! ANGEL! Wait, no, _VOGEY_!”

“JesusfuckingchristPence, _what_?”

“He has rug burn on his face. ON HIS FACE.”

“OH FUCK ALL OF YOU GUYS!”


End file.
